


The Perfect Brew (For the Perfect Future)

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: BaristaFelix, Boys In Love, But canon setting, Coffeeshop AU, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Sylvix Week 2019, Sylvixweek2019, but not really, no beta we die like men, this shit is gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 19:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21041849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: A brew is only as good as the company it's shared with. Oneshot, AU. Day 2 of Sylvix Week.





	The Perfect Brew (For the Perfect Future)

**Author's Note:**

> Of the prompts, I picked coffee shop. 
> 
> It's 3:30 AM on the technical third day where I live, but I haven't gone to bed yet so IT COUNTS. Thanks to everyone on the Sylvix server for their neverending love and support.

Sylvain isn’t a coffee person, but the tiny cafe is the perfect spot to hide. 

He has to hand it to the woman-- Margrita Alpazar of House Rowe was a force of nature. If he’s going to be shackled to a woman and forced to bear children with her… well, he can appreciate someone with a decent backbone. 

The problem with Lady Alpazar though, is that she has _too_ much of a backbone, and that she’s just _too damn assertive_. It’s why his mother adores the woman, and why Sylvain still cringes at the mere mention of her. 

He ducks past the wide wooden door, flattening himself against the limestone wall of the interior. He doesn’t risk looking to see if she’s passed him up, but he still waits a long moment, holding his breath. 

Really, he’d wait for hours if it will throw her off his trail. And _surely_ she isn’t about to follow him all the way to Low Street. She has standards. 

Sylvain can’t stop the grimace that slides across his face. Who’s he kidding. She’s actually followed him to far worse places before, and he wasn’t even _thinking_ about that one time at the brothel. 

That was when he learned Lady Rowe packed a punch. Literally. 

The cafe smells nice at least-- if you like coffee. Porcelain cups and plates clatter as customers enjoy their daily brew. He’s more of a tea person, really, but he can appreciate the bitter taste and biting aroma, and--

He turns into the business proper, only to find a shorter, quite aggressive looking man staring right back at him. His linen shirt is old and off-white, and his apron is stained with coffee grounds. He balances a tray on one hand easily, holding a steaming coffee kettle in the other. Inky, dark hair hangs in his face, the longer bits tied haphazardly in the back. 

He looks Sylvain up and down, taking in his appearance. Sylvain’s dressed in his finery, due to his meeting with his betrothed, and he sticks out like a sore thumb. And while it isn’t the slums… well, he wasn’t on High Street either. 

Sylvain already has an excuse on the edge of his silver tongue, when the other man speaks. 

“Not black,” he says curtly. Sylvain blinks. _Well of course he wasn’t, was the man blind--_ “You’re the type to mask the taste, so sugar and cream. More so the former than the latter. And then you’d likely ruin a good brew with a bit of chocolate.” A pause, as he adjusts the tray against his shoulder. “There’s a table in the back. At least take a seat and fucking order something, if you’re keen on camping here.”

_Oh_. 

Well, Sylvain isn’t dumb, but he’s slow on the intake sometimes. “Do you have any tea?” is his response, and he can tell by the man’s immediate scowl that it was absolutely the wrong thing to ask. 

“You’ll find your _pansy water_ on High Street.” He must see Sylvain’s wince, because then the man scowls with a _tsk_. “Just find a seat. I’ll bring you something.”

Sylvain dumbly does what he asks, and the man is gone before he can think much else of it. He tucks away to the back corner, tucking himself into a too-small chair, and clasping his hands awkwardly. He risks a glance towards the entrance door, but they don’t fling open. 

He’s apparently lost his tail, thank the fucking Goddess. 

Eventually, the sour-faced barista finds his way over to the table. He drops a tray loudly onto the surface, followed by an old coffee mug and plate, and then a very small glass pitcher. “This isn’t my most popular brew, but you might not hate it.” He lifts the cup, pouring the contents of the pitcher into it. “Something about _fruity_ notes, and hints of _cocoa_. Honestly, the merchant bored me with the details. Dark Roasts are for the weak-blooded.”

It’s pretty much all gibberish to him, but Sylvain reaches for the cup when the dour man holds it out. 

“Dark Roast, right,” he repeats. 

The other man sneers, but waits. Sylvain realizes he’s waiting on _him_. He lifts the mug to his mouth and takes a sip. 

He’s never really liked coffee, _but holy shit, this brew is something else._ He takes another sip. And then another, and it must show on his face, because the next time he looks at the barista, his scowl has been replaced by a smug smirk. 

“This is uh--”

“Yeah, I was right it seems.”

Sylvain swallows another sip. 

“Who are you hiding from?” the man asks, and Sylvain is caught off guard. 

He places the cup down, thumbing over the handle and replies, “My future wife.”

The barista winces in what looks like solidarity. Then he motions to the coffee. “It’s on the house.”

Before Sylvain can refuse though, the man is gone and assisting another table. He looks down at the dark drink. He never drinks this stuff black but-- He lifts the cup carefully, sipping at it. 

It’s the best fucking coffee he’s ever had. 

…

Sylvain wants to go back the next day, but holds himself back. He blames it on paperwork and a generalized _I’m working._ Margrita manages to corner him again, but only to pout about their _missed date_ the day before. She doesn’t seem angry that he slipped from her presence though-- only mildly amused-- and she smirks as she tries to reschedule. Sylvain hedges around the idea, but eventually agrees to sharing a cup of tea _when he finds the time_. 

Which, if he can help it, will be never. 

Still, there’s something about the cafe that tugs at him. Or rather, _someone_. 

It takes three days for him to finally cave and pick his way back to Low Street. He tells his mother that he just needs a _walk_. He tells Margrita that he’s out _playing cards with the boys_. He narrowly escapes his Father’s assigned guards (babysitters), but manages to sneak away. 

The cafe smells sharp with the scent of coffee beans, and he takes a deep breath. Yeah, he’s still not used to it, but it’s growing on him, this _coffee thing_. He slides towards the same table as before. He looks around, trying to--

_Ah, there he is_. 

The barista is… wearing the same shirt as yesterday-- he can see the coffee stains from where he sat. He looks tired, bags cut deep under his eyes, but his hair is sleek and brushed out. Today it was braided and thrown over his shoulder. 

Sylvain watches as the man pours a cup out for a guest. The woman in question says something with a flirty smile, and the man scowls, biting back a clipped remark. Sylvain hums at that. _Interesting_. 

And then the man is at his table, that scowl directed right at him. “Got lost on your way to High Street again?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. 

Sylvain leans back in his chair. “I’d have to be going to High Street for that to happen. Instead, I spent nearly two hours trying to find this place again.” There’s a pause, and then, “I mean the coffee is good and the place is decent enough. But then again… the help?” He motions to the dark-haired man himself and his coffee dusted apron. “Leaves a little to be desired.”

The barista scoffs, his lips twitching in annoyance. He leaves, but then comes back, this time with a cup and pot. “Medium Roast this time,” he says shortly. “Imported beans from Brigid, roasted with orange peels. My least popular brew that I offer. I don’t know why, but maybe that smart mouth of yours might be the only that will enjoy it.”

He practically slams the cup down on the table, and whisks away to grab the ticket. He slaps that on the table as well, before flitting off across the room. He doesn’t come back. 

Sylvain’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice that he’s been charged double at first. 

And when he does, he happily pays it. 

…

Sylvain’s hates that particular brew, but he goes back every single day that week. 

The barista scowls everytime, his lips twitching exasperation as he takes in his high-class finery. Yeah, Sylvain doesn’t really _belong_ there, but he doesn’t really care. Every single day, that same terrible brew is dropped before him, chipped cup and mismatched plate accompanying it. 

Sylvain always finishes it, despite the bitter and acrid taste. 

Four days later, he asks another barista who the owner is, and she nudges her head to the side. Towards the man with the awful disposition. 

_Oh_. No wonder he’s pissed. 

Still, Sylvain learns his name that day. It’s Felix. 

…

“What’s your favorite brew,” Sylvain asks one day. He prefers the counter to the table, he’s realized, because it allows him to bother Felix. And honestly, it’s a miracle the man hasn’t kicked him out yet. 

The cafe isn’t as full as usual, but perhaps it’s because it’s later in the day. He’s been at it for a month by this point, spending every afternoon with his favorite prickly friend. 

Felix doesn’t scowl at him anymore, not much at least. The look’s been replaced with a constant mask of disdain and eye-rolling. Sylvain considers it a victory, even if he doesn’t quite know what he wants from the man.

Felix pauses, mid pour, the stream of coffee cutting off abruptly. Dark Roast again, this time grown in Almyra. Something, something, lemons and thyme. Pairs well with fruit scones, whatever that means. “That’s not for you to know,” he says, resuming his task. 

Once the cup is full, he slides it over the countertop. 

“You wound me, Felix,” he whines.

“_Hugo_,” the other man snaps. Sylvain smirks at him, before sipping at his cup. 

This one isn’t bad. This one is decent, and it’s one that he would drink again. He adds it to his mental list. 

“Say Felix,” he drawls, ignoring the requested what-he-assumes-to-be last name, “Teach me how to brew a good cup? Margrita complained about what I made the other day, and I can’t bear to see her frown like that again.”

Felix pauses again, his face unreadable, but then he tsks. “Idiot.”

It isn’t a _no_ though, nor does he correct him when he calls him by name. 

…

“So _this_ is where you spend your afternoons.” Margrita hums lightly, as she looks around. Her arm is slung through his own and she clings to his side, like butter on bread. Sylvain doesn’t like it, but frankly, he’s too exhausted to fight her off. So he leaves her be. For the moment, she’s behaving. “It’s _cute_.”

Sylvain nearly warns her about that particular word, but Felix is already there before he can. 

“Cute,” he practically spits. His glances follows the entire length of both of them, no doubt scowling at their velvets and jewels. “It’s bad enough he gets lost everyday, now you too?”

Margrita’s eyebrows raise at such speech, but her lips quirk in amusement. 

“Don’t mind my friend,” Sylvain sighs, patting her arm gently. “Felix thinks that _cute_ ruins the image he’s actually going for.”

“Then what _is_ he going for?” she asks. 

“Robust,” is Felix’s answer, and the woman cackles in response. _Robust, like a good brew,_ he’d once told Sylvain. Felix lips twitch downwards as he points at her. “I don’t like her,” he says to Sylvain, before turning on his heel and wheeling around the edge of the counter. 

_Who does_? Sylvain thinks, but when he looks at Margrita, she’s watching him carefully, not Felix. 

“Some _friend_.” She doesn’t look angry though, her eyes narrowed with an amused brightness. Really, she isn’t as bad as she could be, he supposes. And with her tanned skin and bright green eyes, she’s cute to boot. 

To bad she isn’t Fe--

It’s like water has been dumped over him, and he shoves that thought away as soon as it comes. “He’s still getting used to the idea,” Sylvain finally says, but his tone is a little more subdued than his normally cheerful self. 

But Margrita laughs, and he smiles back thinly, leading her over to his favorite table in the back. 

The brew that is brought to them is a medium roast. Felix says something about the coastal region of the Adrestian Empire, cherries and something called _cascara_. 

Sylvain imagines that it probably tastes good, considering the pleased hum from Margrita across him. But as Felix pours out a second cup, Sylvain watches how his eyelashes flutter when he blinks, and the delicate ripple of his forearms, visible where he’s rolled up his sleeves. 

He swallows thickly around the lump forming in his throat. 

Felix slides the cup towards him, across the table. And when they meet gazes, his scowl relaxes into a smile. 

When Sylvain sips the coffee, all he tastes is ash. 

…

It’s been a year since Sylvain came to the realization that he loves Felix. 

At first it was a quiet little thing. Sylvain would pick up on the small details that he wouldn’t notice before-- the stray strands that escape his various up-dos and how silky they look. The way that he scowls in mock anger, but let’s out a little _tsk_ of amusement. 

But as time passes, that feeling grows.

They aren’t at the cafe this time. Felix has surpassed _friendship_ into something else. Companion? Confidant? Whatever it was, Sylvain’s household doesn’t ask questions when they see the dour-faced man slinking through the hallways.

Sylvain loves it. He also hates it. 

They sit on a bench in the garden. Even though they’re alone, Felix is still on high alert. Sylvain’s since learned that he’s a veteran who fought in the Holy War, always on edge. He’s swapped his sword for coffee beans, and has tricked himself into living a simpler life. Sylvain wishes he could do that same, just disappear himself and be free. 

“I’m going back home,” is the first thing Sylvain says.

Felix, who’s already pulling out a water kettle, pauses. It’s barely there, the grief on his face, but Sylvain sees it. He _wants_ to see it, he realizes, he-- 

Actually, he doesn’t, because that’s going to make this a hell of a lot harder. 

“My father is sick, and it’s about time that I take over my lands,” he finishes. The words sound lame in his mouth. 

“Duty,” Felix says quietly. He’s never really confirmed it, but Sylvain has figured that he’s high born. Felix just reads _well bred_, when you look hard enough. Again, there’s that green-eyed jealousy, bursting in his chest. Felix was lucky enough to escape wherever it was, that he came from.

“Yeah, crests you know. Can’t be a Gautier, and not give a shit, right?” His tone is as bitter as that one medium roast that Sylvain really fucking hates. His friend reserves that brew for when he’s angry at him.

Felix hums, but doesn’t respond. He sets out two cups, followed by glass press and plunger. There’s a quick snap of his fingers and then a small flame, before lighting the kindling under the pot. He’s not good with fire, but he manages well enough with this. 

And then he pulls out a tin that Sylvain doesn’t recognize. Old and dented, the green paint flicking off. It’s not from the cafe stock. “I’m sorry about the Lady Alpazar.”

_Ah, right_. 

There was an argument, and then some words, and Sylvain might have said something that he severely regrets. Something, something, _I love him_. She hadn’t gotten angry, instead he had just sighed in resignation. And then a smile. And then a pat on the cheek, followed by a kiss to the forehead. 

Really, he regrets it because there isn’t a woman in the world as understanding as the Lady Alpazar, and if he’s going to have to marry someone that isn’t Felix, she was definitely his top choice. 

Except that she isn’t a choice anymore. 

“Yeah, me too.”

Felix watches him for a moment, before opening the tin and spooning out a liberal amount of ground coffee. He must have done that bit before arriving. They sit in silence as the coffee brews, and it doesn’t smell like anything he’s ever tasted. 

“I don’t want to, you know,” he says finally. “I don’t want to go back--” He paused, knuckles tightening. “There’s nothing for me there,” he finishes weakly. He’s entering dangerous territory.

Felix pours the coffee. Sylvain reaches for it, and Felix’s hand lingers for too long, before pulling away. “A good friend once said that a brew is only as good as the company it’s shared in.”

Sylvain chuckles darkly. “No wonder everything I drink tastes like shit.”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Felix immediately responds. His voice is quiet, but it’s sincere.

Sylvain sips his cup, and it _is_ bullshit. He laughs again. “Figures this would be the best fucking cup you’ve evermade me.”

Felix hums at that. “You once asked about my favorite brew,” he says. 

“_That’s not for you to know_.” They’re repeated words, but ones that he remembers well. 

“Pecans, Maple and Vanilla, with enough caffeine to fuel an army. I don’t think I’ve ever given you a blonde roast, but here you are.”

“Figures.”

“I…” But Felix hesitates, worrying his own cup between his hands. “I’ll miss you,” he finally admits. “When you leave.” Oh, the fucking dramatic irony. Sylvain can’t help but laugh, and Felix huffs at that. “Is that _funny_ to you--”

“No it’s not,” Sylvain says quietly. “It’s tragic.”

Felix turns to him, his brow furrowing into a cute little wrinkles and-- Sylvain sighs. 

But Felix knows how to read him. “What happened between the two of you?” he asks gently. 

“We had a fight.”

“Did she not want to go back with you? Gautier lands are quite unforgiving.”

“I told her that I didn’t love her.”

Felix blinks at that. “Was that a secret? It’s not as if she _loves you_, and she doesn’t strike me as stupid--”

“I told her that I love someone else.”

Felix’s mouth snaps shut. “Well, not what a lady wants to hear.”

“Not usually, no.”

Felix sips at his mug. “She must have been angry.”

“She told me to _go for it_.” 

“_What?_”

Suddenly, the coffee seems cold in his hands. “Yeah, hence the fight.”

Felix tips his head to the side, his eyes narrowing. “The woman gives you a _pass_, and you argue over it? How stupid are you?”

“It’s pretty complicated.”

Felix _hmphs_ at that. “There’s very little complicated about you, Sylvain.” But then his expression falls tender. “Will you?” he asks hesitantly. 

“Will I what?”

“Go for it?”

Sylvain is quiet for a long minute, rubbing his fingertip along the edge of his cup. Watching the garden and how the sunlight filtered through the trees around them. He’s about to make a mistake. He’s about to throw caution into the wind, and quite possibly fuck up his entire life. He turns to Felix, who looks back in curiosity. 

He reaches out suddenly, pressing his fingers against the high arch of Felix’s cheekbones. He’s prepared for the man to pull away, but he doesn’t. “There aren’t any coffee shops in Gautier,” he finally says. 

“Sylvain--” 

“I’ve come to enjoy it a lot. Coffee, I mean, but it’s not really the _drink _that I like. What was it you said earlier? The brew is only as good as the company its shared with?”

“_Sylvain_.” Felix’s voice pitches high and breathy. 

Sylvain moves to grasp his chin gently. “Would you come with me? Up North?”

“_Idiot_.” Felix reaches out, gripping onto Sylvain’s shirt like it’s a lifeline. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.”

But he doesn’t say no. He’s red, and embarrassed, and he drops the cup of coffee in his lap. It clatters to the ground, cracking. And he still hasn’t said no. 

Sylvain smiles, before leaning in.

Felix meets him halfway. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk Sylvix? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask!


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